


The Most Successful People

by angelsaves



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 16:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7394476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsaves/pseuds/angelsaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The most successful people are those who are good at Plan B." -James Yorke</p>
<p>When she was 17, Hermione had it all figured out. At 27, things haven't worked out quite as planned. Fortunately, she's one of the brightest witches of her age.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Successful People

**Author's Note:**

  * For [salvamisandwich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salvamisandwich/gifts).



When she was 17, Hermione had everything figured out. They were going to defeat You-Know-Who, and when all that was over, she was going to do historically well on her NEWTs, get into a Magus Doctor program, and marry Ron Weasley.

_Well,_ she thinks, from the world-weary vantage point of 27, _as the poet said, two out of three ain't bad._ Her NEWT scores were listed in the newest edition of Hogwarts: A History, and she had been accepted to all five of the Magus Doctor programs to which she had applied -- in Britain, France, Canada, America, and Bulgaria.

"Well, of course you won't go _there_ ," Ron had said, at the end of their last year at Hogwarts, picking up the deep green Bulgarian envelope with two fingers as if it were dirty.

"And why is that?" Hermione had asked crisply, snatching it back almost forcefully enough to drop it in her porridge. "Too close to Viktor Krum?"

Ron had looked at her as if she'd taken something inadvisable from George. "You don't speak Bulgarian," he had said slowly. "Or French. Is there something you want to tell me, Hermione?"

"Of course not," she'd replied, applying herself to her porridge. Her correspondence with Viktor had nothing at all to do with Ron.

"The French thing rules out the Canadian university, too," Ginny had said, helping herself to the pale pink envelope. "See? It's bilingual. So unless you feel like learning a new language at the same time --"

"I might do," Hermione had said, although her mind had been made up as soon as she saw the golden envelope from Hekate-Krataiis University of London. "I've always wanted to live abroad," she'd added impulsively, just to see what her friends would say.

"Could be fun. We'd all visit you," Harry had replied. 'I hear even the Muggles overseas have interesting sweets."

"Yes, because I am choosing a graduate program based on the availability of interesting sweets. My parents are _dentists_ , Harry!"

He'd shrugged good-naturedly. "Well, I thought I'd give it a shot, anyhow."

" _Hermione,_ " Ron had said, as though he were dying. "You can't mean it!"

"Oh, honestly, Ronald!" She'd waved the golden envelope at him. "Hekate-Krataiis was my first choice all along."

Ron had looked relieved. "Well, good. I don't fancy a long distance thing -- not that I wouldn't've done it," he'd added hastily, with Ginny's elbow in his side.

Now she's at the other end of it, having just received all F's in her FROG doctoral exams (for Flying Colors, naturally) and a standing ovation for her dissertation on the rights of intelligent magical beings -- but she hasn't dated anyone seriously since she realized that she and Ron would be better off as friends three years ago, and her closest classmates Padma Patil and Meriall Phatch are at their wits' end over it.

"Look, no one could possibly support your chucking Ron more than I do," Padma says, bumping Hermione's shoulder companionably with her own, "but you've simply got to get over it one of these days."

"I didn't _chuck_ Ron," Hermione protests. "That sounds -- we just had very different expectations for our lives, and we came to the amicable agreement --"

"--that you would chuck him and let him find someone to pop out babies with," Meriall agrees. "There's nothing wrong with chucking someone who's wrong for you, dear, and there's nothing wrong with staying friends, either, but don't you feel a bit lonely?"

"Not a bit," Hermione says, folding her arms. "I'm having lunch with the two of you right now, as you may have noticed, and Harry and Ginny and Luna have invited me to their flat for dinner and board games on Thursday, and Friday I've set aside to sort through job applications. My social calendar is perfectly adequate."

Padma and Meriall exchange a look. "I notice," Padma says, "that you didn't mention any plans for Saturday afternoon."

"That's because I don't have any," Hermione admits, then narrows her eyes at her friend. "Please tell me you aren't setting me up. You remember how that went last time."

"We're not setting you up," Meriall says, opening her eyes as wide as they go, as if that will fool Hermione into complacency. "We just have Quidditch tickets!"

"Yes, and I can't go," Padma says. "I have -- an appointment. A very important appointment, right at the time the Quidditch game is meant to start. So you'll have to go and keep Meriall company. You will, won't you? You won't leave my girlfriend cold and alone?"

Hermione sighs. "I suppose I could, if the ticket is going spare. Who's playing?"

"It's an exhibition game," Meriall begins, then, at a sharp glance from Padma, "I can't remember who's playing. It's meant to be good, though. That's what I hear."

This is, of course, deeply suspicious, but it's been at least a year since Hermione's seen Quidditch besides the pick-up games the Potter-Weasley-Lovegoods and Weasley-Robinses are always arranging, and the past fifteen years of exposure to Harry and Ron have given her a bit of a taste for it. Even if it's a blind date -- Padma and Meriall are not as subtle as they believe they are -- she'll be able to ignore the man in favor of Quidditch if he's awful. "All right, I'll go," she says. 

Padma and Meriall bump each other's fists under the table in poorly-disguised triumph, assuming either that Hermione won't notice or won't care. They've been friends for long enough that, really, she doesn't mind their interference much. In spite of their lack of interest in men, the two of them are actually fairly good at picking out the ones that Hermione will find tolerable for the time it takes to have dinner or drinks. "Good, that's settled," Padma says. "Will you have another drink, Hermione?"

She considers the merits of another pint of cider, and decides that they are worth it. "Yes, thank you," she says, letting Padma signal the waiter for another round. 

"To Hermione, being willing to give -- Quidditch -- a shot," says Meriall, when the waiter has deposited their pints on the table, raising hers in the air.

Hermione sighs. "To friends who will never give up."

"To us," Padma says cheerily, and they drink up.

***

On Saturday, Hermione dresses casually but prettily, in a cotton top that particularly flatters her coloring and dark jeans. Meriall hasn't Flooed yet to tell her that she's suddenly come down sick, but Hermione is fairly certain that when she gets to the Quidditch arena, whomever she'll meet there, it won't be Meriall. Summoning her bravery -- what's left to be afraid of, really? -- she puts on a light cloak and Apparates.

The arena is bustling when Hermione gets there, rather busier than she'd expected for an afternoon Quidditch game in the off-season. There's a sign, though, and she cranes her neck to read it: apparently, this is an exhibition game between Puddlemere United and the Vratsa Vultures. Vratsa is in Bulgaria, and Hermione is nearly sure that it's the team Viktor plays for during off-years for the Quidditch World Cup -- is it possible that he's here? He hadn't mentioned it in his last letter, but perhaps --

"Are you Hermione Granger?" asks a pleasant male voice.

Hermione turns to see a wizard smiling with friendly curiosity. "Yes, I am," she says cautiously. "And you are?"

"Guilielmus Raiphe," he says with a slight bow, "but please, call me Gill."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Gill," Hermione says, extending her hand politely. "Did Meriall send you?"

"She did," Gill says. His handshake is unremarkable, matching his medium-brown hair, medium-blue eyes, and medium-grey robes. "I understand she has a touch of food poisoning, the poor thing. She was well enough to pass me her tickets through the Floo, at least, so we can still enjoy the game for her -- that is, if you don't mind my company?"

"Not at all." Hermione smiles at him. "Shall we go in?"

They find their seats quickly and settle in to make small talk before the match starts. Hermione doesn't mind Gill's company, it's true; she finds him completely unobjectionable. Unfortunately, however, that is all she finds him. His features are all regular and medium-sized, his stories are neither too boring nor too engrossing, and his voice is smooth and even, with the RP accent she remembers from BBC broadcasts in the Muggle world.

_You're comparing him to Viktor. Stop it,_ she tells herself sternly. Just because Viktor was her first kiss didn't make him the standard by which all other men should be measured, for Merlin's sake.

"So, which team are you supporting?" Gill asks her, during a lull in conversation.

"The Vultures," Hermione says without thinking.

"Really!" The note of mild surprise in Gill's voice makes him sound almost interesting. "I thought you'd be Puddlemere United all the way. Didn't you go to school with Oliver Wood?"

"I did," she admits. "He was a bit older than me, though."

"Have you got a crush on the Vultures' Seeker, then?" He winks at her chummily. "I think he's got a bit of a beak on him, but then blokes never did it for me."

"Oh, what's his name?" Hermione asks, as casually as she can manage. The players are flying out and starting to warm up, but none of them have come close enough for her to read their robes. 

"Krum," Gill tells her. "Quite good, youngest member of the Bulgarian National Team in his day --"

"Viktor!" Hermione says, pleased. "He came to Hogwarts for the Triwizard Championship when I was in fourth year. We've written back and forth ever since."

"Have you!" The surprise is back in Gill's tone. "Well, that's -- that's quite nice, I'm sure." A frown creases his brow.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asks.

"Oh, there's nothing wrong," Gill assures her. "It's just -- Meriall gave me the impression that you were single."

Now it's Hermione's turn to frown. "I am," she informs him.

"I see," Gill says, as though he doesn't at all. He glances up toward the Quidditch players flying in circles, and adds, "Is that why Krum is about to fly directly into Griffiths for staring at you?"

"He is not!" Hermione looks up too, and to her shock, Griffiths does in fact execute a neat piece of flying in order to avoid crashing into Krum. She raises her hand tentatively and waves at Viktor, and his face splits into a beaming grin.

"Single," Gill repeats, and snorts lightly. "Not if that one has anything to say about it, you aren't."

"I'm sorry if you're disappointed," Hermione says, trying very hard to break eye contact with Viktor -- he has a job to do, after all.

"A bit," he admits. "You're a very attractive young witch, you know. All the same, I think I'd rather hold out for someone who looks at me like you look at Krum. Shall we be friends?"

"Friends," Hermione agrees, and shakes Gill's hand firmly.

The Quidditch game goes by in the blink of an eye -- almost literally, as it's only about five minutes before Viktor catches the Snitch and wins it for the Vultures. Hermione thinks she's disappointed, right up until a silver-smoke bulldog runs through the air towards her and says in Viktor's thick accent, "Her-mi-o-ne. Please come to locker room."

Gill nudges her shoulder companionably. "Go on, then," he says.

"I'll be right there," she tells Viktor's Patronus, then scrambles to her feet. "Gill, it was a pleasure to meet you. I wish you the best of luck."

"Same to you, Hermione," Gill says.

She'd expected the bulldog Patronus to run back to Viktor and tell him that she was on her way; instead, it hovers in front of her as she makes her way through the stands and leads her straight to the visitors' locker room. "I don't think I can go any further," she tells it.

The Patronus tilts its head and looks at her, then vanishes into the locker room. Moments later, the Vratsa Vultures clear out, all except Viktor. One of the players -- the Chaser, Hermione thinks, though she's not sure -- winks at her.

"Well, that's clear enough," Hermione mutters to herself, blushing. She steps just inside the door and calls, "Viktor?"

"Hermione?" He still pronounces her name carefully, as if the syllables will trip him up. Rubbing his dark hair vigorously with a towel, dressed in nothing but running shorts, he walks around the corner from the showers. "Hermione!"

"Viktor," she repeats. She hopes she looks half as glad to see him as he does to see her. "You didn't tell me you were going to be here!"

"I am thinking I vill surprise you," Viktor says, ducking his head. "Instead, you surprise me!"

"I surprised both of us," Hermione says, laughing a bit. "I was supposed to be getting set up on a date!"

"The man you vere vith." Viktor's expression clouds. "Your date?"

"Just a friend. He, ah." Hermione winds a piece of hair around one finger, feeling just as awkward as she had before the Yule Ball all those years ago. "He saw the way I looked at you, and decided we should be friends instead."

"Good." Viktor drops his towel and takes a step closer to her, so close that she can feel the damp heat from the shower radiating off his skin. "Hermione. May I kiss you?"

"Yes, please." Hermione wraps her arms around Viktor's neck, tilting her face up to his, and he kisses her as softly and undemandingly as if they were teenagers under the stars again, and not grown adults in a sweaty locker room. It's good -- it's wonderful, to be honest -- but it's not what she wants. "Viktor," she whispers against his mouth.

Viktor mumbles something that might be her name, or might be the word _mine_ , and deepens the kiss, pulling her tightly to him and stroking the side of her face with his fingertips. 

That's more like it. She nibbles his lower lip, and he groans; she can feel him growing hard through his shorts, pressing against her belly, and she likes it.

"Let me --" Viktor swallows. "I vant to go down on you. May I? Please?"

Hermione can't stifle her laugh. "I've never had a man beg for that before," she says. "Yes. Of course. Where -- ?"

Viktor glances around, as if measuring the cleanliness of the locker room and finding it wanting. "Hold onto me," he says instead.

She does, and the locker room swirls away, replaced by a luxurious hotel room. If she cared enough to look out the window, she would likely be able to guess which hotel they were in -- but the view is the least of her concerns right now. She disentangles herself from Viktor's embrace and pushes her cloak off her shoulders, then unbuttons her jeans, sliding them off her hips and stepping out of the pile of denim. 

He groans again at the sight of her. A detached part of her thinks that she isn't at her most attractive right now -- she's not wearing very nice underwear, since she was hardly expecting to take off her clothes for some friend of Meriall's -- but the rest of her feels beautiful, thrilling to Viktor's gaze on her skin. She hooks her thumbs in the waistband of her underpants, but he says, "Vait. Let me," and goes to his knees in front of her.

"Oh," Hermione says. She likes the view, Viktor's dark head bowed, and when he runs his large, warm hands up her thighs, thumbs just skating over the insides, she shudders all over.

"Mmmm." Viktor smooths his hands over the shapes of her hips and arse, then eases her underpants down and off. " _Mmmm._ " 

"Wait --" It won't be easy for Hermione to stay upright while he's, Merlin, _nuzzling_ her, and she doesn't want to waste the effort; she backs up in small steps until the backs of her thighs hit the pillowy mattress and sits down, bracing herself with her hands so she can keep watching.

"Good idea," Viktor says approvingly; he settles between her knees, bends his head, and licks deeply into her folds. He eats her out like he loves it, and more than that, he takes direction well. When Hermione cards her fingers into his short hair and moves his head where she wants it, he moans deliciously against her clit and redoubles his efforts. It makes her feel like she's melting, going liquid with pleasure.

Then he whispers a spell -- they'd discussed the difficulties of learning wandless magic in their letters -- and -- "Oh, _Merlin!_ " His tongue is _vibrating_ , and it tips Hermione over the edge into orgasm, clenching around his tongue and crying out wordlessly.

"Beautiful," Viktor says, voice soft, leaning his head against the inside of her knee.

Hermione laughs breathlessly and cups his face in her hand. "Thank you," she says.

"It vas my pleasure," he says, and turns to drop a kiss in her palm.

"Speaking of your pleasure," Hermione says, "what would you like to do about that?"

"Vhatever you vould like." His black eyes are wide and guileless, and oh, she likes that.

"Come up here and kiss me," she demands. He does, propping himself up on his elbows and knees and leaning down to press their mouths together, until Hermione wraps one leg around his waist and pulls him flush against her. Now it's her turn to whisper a spell, sending Viktor's clothes and the rest of her own across the room. 

"Hermione," he says, kissing the underside of her jaw. "I vould like -- if I may ask -- "

"Would you like to fuck me?" Hermione offers. She rolls her hips luxuriously up against his. "I have a spell barrier -- it's safe."

"Ah!" Viktor closes his eyes for a moment, apparently to compose himself. "I vould like nothing more."

"Good," Hermione says. She doesn't feel like waiting; she reaches down and angles the head of his cock into her. Viktor's groan rumbles all through her as he thrusts, tentatively at first, then, as though realizing that she's hardly made of glass, more forcefully. "Oh, that's good."

"Hermione," Viktor breathes, saying her name like a spell requiring great care -- he moves in her like a wave, and the wave crests. Hermione's never much liked flying, but she thinks that if it were more like having sex with Viktor, she'd love it.

After a few heavy breaths, he rolls off of her, then pulls her gently into the circle of his arms. "You are the most vonderful vitch I have ever known," he tells her.

"It was good for me, too," Hermione says lightly, kissing his lips.

"I vas planning to tell you -- this vas not just an exhibition game, for me. It vas a tryout for Puddlemere." He traces a line down from her shoulder to her elbow. "I am thinking they vill accept me."

"You'd move here?" she asks in surprise.

"I vould," Viktor says. "Vould you -- that is to say -- vould you like to, if I vere to move to England --" 

His English appears to desert him; fortunately, Hermione is one of the brightest witches of her age. "Yes," she says, "I would like our friendship to become much, much closer." 

Viktor beams. "Good," he says, and kisses her thoroughly.

No, now that Hermione thinks of it, she's not sorry at all to have had wrenches thrown in the works of her old plan. This new plan shows every sign of working out much, much better.


End file.
